


It's Always the Losing Side

by sunken_standard



Series: It's Always the Losing Side [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-03
Updated: 2017-02-03
Packaged: 2018-09-21 16:40:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9557489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunken_standard/pseuds/sunken_standard
Summary: It was her grief that drove her to it.  Not his.





	

It was her grief that drove her to it. Not his.

 

She'd barely slept in three days, pacing and pacing with a baby that was too young to know why her Mummy was never coming for her, but knowing it all the same. And there was John, who couldn't bring himself to look at either of them.

 

Finally, Mrs. Hudson came to relieve her, give her a few hours to go get a shower, a nap, water her plants.

 

She found him in her flat.

 

"Why are you here?" she asked, halfway between a plea and an accusation.

 

"I needed someplace to be that wasn't..." he waved his hand, shrugged. He had three days' growth of beard and looked like he hadn't slept, either.

 

She walked past him without a word; she didn't have it in her to take on his grief, too. There just wasn't enough of her left.

 

She dumped her bag on her bed; it had been made when she left but it wasn't anymore.

 

She undressed, uncaring that she had an audience. It was just a body. Barely hers. She wasn't in it, anyway, she was somewhere outside herself, outside this fucking nightmare.

 

She started the shower, stepped in while it was still cold. Pulled pins out of her hair and let them fall to the bottom of the tub, fall down the drain. It didn't matter.

 

She washed and it didn't make her feel clean; it didn't make her feel anything.

 

She wasn't expecting the tears when they came, though she knew they would have sooner or later. She sagged against the wall and pressed her forehead to the cool tiles and she couldn't stop them if she wanted to, her hands clenched into fists next to her head.

 

And then the water stopped and there was a towel being wrapped around her and she was being lifted out of the tub to wobble on the floor and she was so, so angry at him.

 

Not for Mary, not for John, not for Rosie, not even for herself; she was angry because it was him, always him, and he'd never been there before so why was he now, how dare he see her like this, it wasn't his to take along with everything else he already had.

 

She wasn't thinking when she fisted her hands in the sides of his dressing gown, hauled herself closer. She wanted to hiss and spit poison and tell him he was a selfish bastard and it wasn't always about him, but then she lunged up and kissed him.

 

It wasn't a nice kiss. There were teeth, but at least there wasn't blood. He didn't move, and then he did; he wrapped his arms around her and kissed back, starving.

 

She pushed and he pulled and the dressing gown hit the floor; he stumbled and his back hit the door frame as she corralled him to the bed. She undid the clasp and zip of his trousers while he worked open shirt buttons, getting distracted partway through because mouths were more important.

 

His shirt was off and his trousers were open; he broke another kiss and said _bed_ with his eyes.

 

She crawled to the center of the bed, didn't get a good look when he shucked his trousers and bent to free his feet; the late-afternoon gloom was too dim to get more than his silhouette.

 

And then he was on her, hovering over her, kissing her mouth and down her neck. Her fingers gripped his back, his hair; his lips traveled lower and he sucked a nipple into his mouth, biting down just this side of painful.

 

She wanted him inside her so badly it hurt, the arousal sudden and intense. She used her palms flat on his chest, her thighs, pushed him away and onto his back, pushed him down into the mattress.

 

She straddled him, bending down to nip his chin, his jaw, under his ear; she ground down against him and he was hard and blood-hot against her. He kneaded the tops of her thighs, grabbed her hips and thrust up against her in a silent question.

 

She shifted forward and used her hand to position him; he pushed up and she pushed back and he was sinking into her. He groaned, a soft pained thing that was more breath than voice, she ahh'd and bowed her back.

 

He surged up, one palm flat on the bed behind him, his other hand clamped to her hip; he kissed and bit his way through it as she rode him hard, scratching her blunt nails over his chest, his shoulders, his scalp.

 

She was close but not there; she wormed her hand between their bodies and rubbed until she bucked against him, her eyes shut tight and crying into his mouth when she came.

 

He let her have a moment to recover before rolling her onto her back and hitching a leg over his hip; he gripped behind her knee and _fucked_ , his mouth pressed to the side of her neck.

 

His breathing was ragged; he swallowed hard and started, "Molly, I-- haah!" before he went rigid with his own orgasm.

 

He let go of her leg and moved his hand to frame the side of her face; he kissed her with too many emotions that were too big for her to name while he started to go soft inside her.

 

He rolled off of her and pulled her with him, arranging her so his arm was around her shoulders, her hand on his chest and his covering it.

 

They didn't talk; they didn't kiss. She may have dozed.

 

And then he shifted against her and caught her mouth again, and this time it was slower and sweeter but just as needy; he sucked marks just above her collarbones and licked a stripe up her ribs, nuzzled the underside of her breast with his nose, then clamped his mouth over her nipple and sucked until she was shaking and so wet and hot she thought she'd die from it.

 

He fucked her again, slower, her ankles crossed over the backs of his thighs, scratching her nails against the dip of his spine that made him choke out the most delicious noises against her mouth.

 

She didn't let him hold her for very long after; her four hours were up and she needed to get back to John and the baby.

 

Sherlock followed her when she sat up, swung her legs over the edge of the bed. He kissed the back of her neck, slipped an arm around her waist. _Stay. Please_.

 

"Sherlock, I have to go. They need me."

 

"I need you," he said, lips trailing along the top of her shoulder, a hint of teeth.

 

She hated him for that, just the smallest bit.

 

"They need me more," she said, his hand falling to the bed as she pulled away, stood.

 

She went into the bathroom without looking at him, started the shower again, washed him off of her skin.

 

He was still in her bed when she returned to her bedroom, propped up against the headboard, the sheet pooled around his waist. He didn't look at her, pointedly absorbed in his phone.

 

She turned on the overhead light and dressed in front of him, an act of defiance.

 

Clothes on, she felt more herself; the first inky strands of shame began to curl through her chest, along the back of her neck.

 

"Get some sleep, Sherlock," she said, an echo of her usual tenderness in the words.

 

"I won't be here when you get back," he said, and she thought there was a kind of regret, finality to it that might have been a warning.

 

A door closing.

 

"I have to go," she repeated simply, then leaned down to kiss his forehead. She wanted to kiss his mouth, but she was too afraid he'd turn away from it.

 

She saw him the next morning, when he came round to John's flat. There wasn't much she could say when she handed him the note; she hadn't wanted to pick sides. She couldn't even apologize for it with her eyes.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Everyone's got a TST oneshot. This is mine, nothing new under the sun.
> 
> Thanks to shoedog for the once-over :D
> 
> Followed by [Double Bind](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9648275)


End file.
